


In the Stars

by nightbirdrises



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightbirdrises/pseuds/nightbirdrises
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt Hummel is a young up-and-coming Capitol fashion designer who has just acquired his own living quarters. Along with the new arrangements, he also receives a gift from a mentor in the form of a single Avox servant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you didn't notice from the summary, this is a Hunger Games AU, pre-Katniss by quite a bit of time. ([tumblr](http://princehummel.tumblr.com/post/77779696421))
> 
> The rating is teetering on the edge of explicit overall - it'll be changed if things change. I have a good 10k+ of this written already but I'm very much going wherever my head takes me with this, so who knows how it'll end up (don't you love a good mystery). It was gonna be a one-shot, then it ran away from me.
> 
> warnings: overall, non-major character death, violence (hey, this is the Hunger Games), a really fuckin' messed-up society, & I'll add to the list as I go.

Compared to his previous home, it’s small. Kurt steps through the rooms, pleasantly surprised at how comfortable it appears. He’s been in buildings that are so extravagantly designed that they looked more like places to be viewed, not lived in. Of course, Kurt, like the vast majority of the Capitol’s citizens, appreciates the value of appearances. But when it comes to home, he prefers things toned down, sweetly subtle colors and shapes coming together to make it easy on the eyes as well as relaxing.

A place to relax is something he desperately needs more and more as of late.

Kurt Hummel, twenty years old, has been learning the ins and outs of Capitol fashion and styling for years. At first it was just something he did to pass the time — when the Games weren’t upcoming or occurring, life in the Capitol became very slow, especially for a young boy like he was. He would watch and rewatch the tribute’s interviews and the Entrance Ceremony with wide eyes, taking in nothing but the way they were dressed. To be a stylist for the Hunger Games became a dream, one that he still holds now.

Pursuing that dream means studying trends and designs under mentors when he’s able to find them. It means attending parties just to examine the fashion that arrives through the door. Here in the Capitol, school doesn’t extend far beyond the basics needed to read, write, and be socially adept. Kurt remembers taking a class on “Capitol Party Etiquette.” However, with nothing that exists that would constitute a “job” in the city, he has no way to learn about his intended career path unless he sticks his neck out to go after it.

Thankfully, his dad is supportive of this rather unorthodox determination. Burt Hummel is a bit of an oddity in the Capitol — his appearance is in no way altered, and he keeps to simple wear that occasionally makes Kurt rub his temples in exasperation because  _why_  would you ever wear  _that_  in public? In spite of that, Kurt loves his father with everything he has, especially since his mother’s disappearance soon after he turned eight. Kurt has no idea what happened to her and has long since stopped trying to get an answer out of his dad. Speaking of Burt Hummel—

"Is that everything?"

"Yeah, I’m set," Kurt says quietly, smiling at his dad where he stands in the doorway. "It’ll be weird not having you around all the time."

"Yeah, well, you know I don’t want you gettin’ used to living with your dad your whole life like some people here do just because they’ve got nothing better to look forward to."

"You know me," Kurt says with a grin, "I can’t just settle like that."

"That’s because you’re a Hummel," Burt points out. "We get stuff done."

Kurt can’t hold it back any longer; he rushes in for a hug, Burt letting out a surprised, easy chuckle. They stand like that in the doorway for some time, Kurt unwilling to let go first because that means he’ll be well and truly on his own — a good thing, but nerve-wracking. As it turns out, neither of them breaks the embrace willingly.

"Right in the middle of the doorway, it’s almost as if he owns the place— But he does!" Kurt jumps back from his dad’s arms out of surprise at the sudden voice, glancing outside to where a familiar and very feline face is approaching. "Kurt!"

"Oh, hi Sheila, oof!" Kurt laughs, can’t help it when plastic whiskers tickle his face as Sheila kisses both of his cheeks. "I thought you and your tail weren’t coming by."

She gives him a look through eyes near-perfectly altered to look like a lion’s, something that he’s always found a bit disconcerting. He doesn’t particularly mind alterations of the body — he keeps it simple with up to five silver hoop earrings on each ear or, more often, [ear cuffs in the shape of bird’s wings](http://cdn.kontraplan.com/site/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/3-LEnvol-Ear-Cuff-2.jpg). Some days he shoots his hair through with a streak or two of a bright color that complements whatever he’s wearing, but not always. He doesn’t care if other people want to completely change how they look, but something bothers him about doing that with the eyes.

"How could I miss being the first to see your new place?" she says. "Well, second. Besides, I wanted to give you a housewarming gift!"

"Oh, that’s— really not necessary," Kurt protests, a little afraid of what a gift from his first mentor might entail.

"Don’t give me any of that." She turns and chirps, "Up here, you."

Frowning, Kurt leans to get a look at whatever’s behind her — and his eyes go wide. Walking demurely up to them, head bowed, is unmistakably an Avox, all dressed in bright, searing crimson, though, thankfully, the hair and eyebrows remain what Kurt assumes is the natural shade of black.

"I thought you could use one since you’re such a busy man now," Sheila says proudly when the Avox stops next to her.

"I don’t… know how to—"

"Oh, come on, he’s as perfect as they come, and he’s young and fit too," she says. "All you do is give an order if you have one, and if not, he’ll be as innocuous as a bookshelf until you do."

Kurt swallows, averting his eyes from the Avox, who won’t look at him anyway. And besides, it’s only polite not to stare at servants. “Is there a name?”

Sheila furrows her brows, clearly struggling to remember. “It’s… oh, I could have sworn I knew this off the top of my head.” She shakes her head and turns to the Avox only to pull out a card that hangs from his neck by a gold string underneath his shirt. “Blaine, I think this says. Yes. Nineteen years old, in good health, passed all domestic servility tests with flying colors. I’m lucky I even got him.”

"Lucky?"

"Well, he was wanted by half the Capitol, it seems," Sheila says lightly. "Thankfully I was able to outbid and discourage everyone. Only the best for my songbird, yes?"

"Right." Kurt clears his throat. He’s not sure why he’s so uncomfortable; he’s seen plenty of Avoxes in the past without so much as the smallest desire to look twice. Maybe it’s just that he’s never had one of his own; the Hummels didn’t have the money for servants, or at least that’s what his mother told him long before she disappeared. That’s probably it, actually — he’s just not used to the idea. "Well, thank you, Sheila. I really appreciate it."

She beams at him. “You’re very welcome. Enjoy! I’ll see you over the weekend?”

Right, her pre-Games party. The Reapings are to be streamed next Wednesday, after all. “Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

"Good boy."

Sheila gives him one last kiss on the cheek and he accepts it with due grace, unable to be anything but grateful for her existence — he wouldn’t be where he is now without her. She’s a little overwhelming, but most people here are, really. It’s the norm. 

"Come on in," Kurt says to the Avox — Blaine — as Sheila stalks away, swinging her tail in her grasp. He takes a deep breath while Blaine passes him and he looks up and down the well-lit street before swinging the door closed at last. His dad disappeared when Sheila arrived, as he tends to; no matter how many times Kurt tells him it doesn’t matter what they think of him, Burt prefers not to stick around when he talks to his more flamboyant acquaintances. He’ll have to visit home sometime in the next few days.

Well. His old home.  _This_  is home now.

Inside, Kurt finds Blaine standing against the wall, utterly silent and seeming to melt into the background despite his bright clothing. Of course, he knows that Avoxes don’t speak. He’s heard that they  _can’t_  speak, but he’s never had reason to wonder whether it’s the former or latter. Until now.

"Okay, so," he starts, awkward and stumbling and far from anything like a master or owner or whatever he’s supposed to be now. He clears his throat and points to a closed door on the other side of the living room. "I wasn’t really expecting you, but for now you may sleep in the guest room just there. It’ll do until I can figure out something more permanent."

Blaine doesn’t move, does nothing to suggest he’s heard Kurt’s words.

"Say something if…" Kurt trails off, noting a twitch of muscle in Blaine’s shoulder. He changes tack. "Nod if you hear me." Blaine nods, once, stiff and simple. "Good. I want you to nod after I speak to you, just so I know that you’ve heard. If something isn’t clear, um, let me know somehow."

Blaine nods again.

"Yes, okay. Great. That’s, that should be all for now, thank you."

Kurt swears he can see Blaine’s gaze tip up slightly, but not enough for him to make eye contact before it’s dropping down again. He takes another long breath and nods to himself, feeling a little like he’s standing on a precipice every time he looks at Blaine. It’s most likely just him adjusting to the fact that he has an Avox now — Kurt ignores the voice in his head telling him that there’s something wrong, the one that tugs at his lungs more often than not around this time of year.

His hand hovers over the controls for his television screen, debating whether or not he wants to turn it on. The programming is most likely centered around the Games once again, highlighting the progress of the Career tributes in 1, 2, and 4 in their training, the ones most likely to enter the 48th Hunger Games. He doesn’t turn it on, instead heads straight to his bedroom and lies on the brand-new mattress, staring up at the starry ceiling he’d insisted on having. Stargazing has always been on his bucket list —  _real_  stargazing — but it’s nearly impossible to go far away enough from the Capitol for the stars to be adequately visible. Or so he’s heard.

Quiet footsteps alert him to Blaine going to the guest room; he hears the door click open and shut, gentle and considerate. Kurt rolls over and gathers a pillow up in his arms, groaning at the thought of getting up and changing into pajamas.

He does eventually, preferring not to sleep in his clothes, but even then it’s difficult to fall asleep. The fabricated twinkling above doesn’t calm him as it had in his mother’s study, where the same sort of ceiling is installed. Instead he finds himself thinking about what real stars might look like, not through any kind of screen or anything, just the appearance of them as he looks up into the sky, stares into near-empty space. The earlier sensation of wrongness continues to dig under his skin, as annoying and impossible to ignore as a bad itch — but he has to ignore it, otherwise how can he get through the day?

Somewhere along the way, his brain tires of thought and he falls asleep, uneasy and bothered.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to add a chapter a day until I catch up to where I've left off in writing (about 6, maybe 7 chapters in total so far); I'll be slower on tumblr since it works out better that way over there. This chapter here is the shortest so far, but important.
> 
> warnings: drunkenness, otherwise no additional warnings

"You really didn’t have to — oh! — drive me, I could’ve walked," Kurt mumbles, tripping out of the vehicle as drunken giggles follow him. "We live in a, in a bubble city, can’t get lost."

"Yeah, yeah, just go get some sleep and take those pills in the morning, you’re gonna feel like death."

"Aye-aye," Kurt says, voice slurred as he salutes in the direction of his friends. Well, they’re not really his friends. Except they are, maybe, because he’s with them all the time, but he couldn’t tell them his deepest thoughts, and isn’t that what friends are for? He’s too drunk for this kind of thinking.

He’s at least sober enough to get inside his house, stumbling all the way. There had been  _so many_  tempting drinks at the party, drinks of all colors that glowed and sparkled and some even shimmered. As always, he avoided the drink used to empty stomachs — he hates that, he tried it once and just felt… icky. Yes, icky seems like the perfect word to describe it.

Kurt blindly bumps into something that’s decidedly not inanimate and jumps when he realizes it’s Blaine; he’d almost forgotten about the existence of his Avox servant. Blaine hardly flinches and Kurt frowns, staring at him and probably standing way too close for either of them to be reasonably comfortable. Screw it; he’s drunk, he’s lonely, and he’s curious.

"Sit with me," he tells Blaine, swaying as he turns and drops ungracefully to the couch. "Come on."

Blaine hesitates but follows the order swiftly, sitting with his back straight a few feet away from Kurt, who scoffs.

"No, no, like," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Like actually  _with_ me, close to me, want to talk to you.”

He’s dangerously close to crossing a line, but part of Kurt’s brain is just too curious about Blaine to even think about that right now. He’s felt odd ever since the Avox walked up to his door and he can’t figure any way to puzzle out what’s odd about it that doesn’t involve directly interacting with someone that he really shouldn’t ever interact with. Not like this, that’s for sure.

It takes a few seconds but Blaine shifts closer, always with his head down as he listens for Kurt to tell him to stop. But Kurt doesn’t say a thing, so it isn’t until their legs are touching that Blaine freezes — with the barest of shivers. Kurt blinks at him until his vision clears enough, says, “Look at me.”

The first thing Kurt notices is Blaine’s cheek; there’s a faded scar that stretches from his temple to his jaw, something Kurt hadn’t spotted in all the time Blaine’s kept his head down the last few days. The next thing he notices is Blaine’s mouth, tight-lipped and baring no secrets. The last are Blaine’s eyes.

Kurt’s always had some kind of strange fascination with eyes, though it mainly manifests itself in disdain for alterations to the shape and color of them. Call him hopelessly sentimental, but he believes there’s something inherently wrong about making changes to that which bares the real person inside each of their sorry façades.

So, okay, maybe he gets a little bitter when he’s drunk.

But in Blaine’s eyes, Kurt’s dizzy mind finds what he pins down as reality without really thinking about it. They’re a shade of bright hazel, though a dark one — maybe it’s just the light. Maybe it’s what Kurt imagines seeing beyond just the color; that Blaine’s eyes hold a dull sadness, emotion brimming the likes of which Kurt can’t find in any other facet of his demeanor.

Dear god, he’s so drunk.

"Can you talk?" Kurt asks, blurts out more like. Blaine holds his gaze as he shakes his head slowly. "Okay, well, that’s one mystery solved."

Kurt thinks he might see a corner of Blaine’s mouth twitch, but he’s not about to trust his senses right now. He’s pretty sure the blue foamy drink he’d had really fucked him over. Or maybe it was drinking that and then the pink bubbly drink full of stars.

"Look, I know I’m not supposed to talk to you," Kurt says, dimly aware that he’s about to start rambling. "Except to, you know, tell you what to do. I don’t get that, why can’t I just talk to you like a friend? Avox ‘schmavox,’ you look like a person to me. I think I’d find you cute in another circumstance," he adds before his eyes go wide. "Don’t, don’t think I’m interested or anything, you can’t even tell me if you’re gay. I just, god, I’d like to talk to someone that doesn’t want to hear about what I think of the recent black-and-white trend, I wanna talk about real stuff, stuff that matters. Okay, well, fashion does matter, my life revolves around it — but that’s all there is, you know? Fashion, and food, and knowing when to gossip and when to keep your fucking mouth shut.

"And the Games. I love the trends that come out of them, and all the celebration is… is good, it’s fun, tonight was fun, but is that really all we’re here for? To watch—" Kurt stops when he notices that Blaine’s tense, strung tight through the set of his jaw and shoulders.

Kurt glances around them — nothing there, of course — and slumps back into the couch, utterly exhausted. He doesn’t even care that the blue in his hair tonight will probably get onto the fabric.

"I’m sorry," he finds himself saying, unsure why. "You don’t care about this." A thought comes to mind and Kurt furrows his brows. "What  _do_  you care about?”

Blaine’s eyes widen just enough for Kurt to tell that they’ve changed. He loosens a little at the question and raises his hands until his outspread palms face Kurt.

"Hands?"

Shaking his head, Blaine reaches for Kurt’s right hand where it rests on his thigh, fingers stopping just centimeters away as he looks at Kurt, a note of a request in his mostly blank expression. Kurt nods and lets Blaine take his hand. He turns it palm up and holds Kurt’s wrist loosely in one hand with calloused, unsure fingers. The index finger of his other hand traces one of the lines on Kurt’s palm, the uppermost of them.

"Which line is that? That’s the… life?" Blaine shakes his head. "Heart line?" Blaine nods, a tiny smile cracking through his eyes and mouth as he released his hold on Kurt. "You care about… the heart? Is this symbolically, or…"

Blaine points to his heart and nods gently. He withdraws back into himself a little, as if afraid he’s given away too much, but Kurt’s not ready for him to shut off and be passive again. So he kisses him.

It’s just a cheek kiss, barely a brush of lips against the scar, but Blaine’s immediately scrambling away to resume his usual position against the wall at the back of the living room, his heaving chest the only indication that anything just happened.

Kurt squeezes his eyes shut at his own misstep — god, his  _servant_  knows better than he does at this point — and stands, walking straight to his bedroom without another word except for “Goodnight.”

The stars have yet to be much of a comfort, and tonight is no different. It irks him more than it should, that he asked for the damn things and they aren’t even doing what they’re supposed to do. He’s starting to sober up, just a little, but that’s not making him feel any better — on the contrary, he feels sick, and not in the drank-way-too-much way.

About an hour later he finally falls asleep, dreams laced with red and gold.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: no additional warnings (those mentioned previously, however, may apply)

The next few days pass with hardly a word spoken from Kurt to his Avox. He’s taken to referring to Blaine in his mind as simply “my Avox” because, frankly, he’s terrified of how far he went that night. People shouldn’t speak so freely with those that serve them, it’s a plain fact that no one questions, so why should he? And the kiss—

Kurt stops sketching his latest design idea and sighs. The kiss had been more taboo than anything, but he can’t bring himself to forget it entirely. It’s ridiculous for him to be so hung up on it, it wasn’t even a kiss on the lips, but he keeps remembering Blaine’s terrified expression, the way he’d jumped up as if electrocuted.

He also remembers Blaine’s touch, tentative and fleeting as he’d shown Kurt the heart line on his palm and indicated that one thing he cares about. There’s no doubt that Blaine can think for himself — Kurt would have to be stupid not to recognize intelligence, though he doesn’t doubt that it’s something that most people ignore around here for the sake of being proper. Intelligence in those below them, that is.

The problem with not talking much — or getting out of the house — the past few days is the obscene amount of thinking time he has. Some of the ideas he’s had… god, he’d be socially outcast for the rest of his life if anyone knew. There would be whispers, unsure looks, someone might even get news of his ideas to Snow’s people. These crazy, outlandish ideas and thoughts really have no place in the Capitol, everyone knows that. No one says it outright, of course.

Music starts playing and Kurt turns, automatic, to the screen that pops up. The Reapings are about to be broadcast; there’s no turning it off once they start. Kurt hovers between staying at his desk and going to the couch to watch, but he shrugs and quickly decides on the former. Fashion doesn’t have a place in the Reapings, so he doesn’t particularly care.

That’s definitely an unorthodox quirk of his: not caring about the Games in the way people are supposed to care about them. He never watched the actual broadcastings of the arena until he turned seventeen; his dad refused to let him, citing violence and brutality. Kurt remembers, once, that he begged to watch because all of his friends did and he felt left out of their conversations this time of year — he also remembers Burt’s response, low and serious.

"Until your head breaks outta that need to think and do like everyone else, you’re not watching the Hunger Games. Sorry, bud."

Kurt hadn’t really understood, perhaps because he’d been too angry to listen properly, but the end result is that he hasn’t been exposed to the central purpose of the Games as long as most have. The first time watching will probably always haunt him; a tribute, during the bloodbath at the start, had sliced off the arm of another with hardly any effort, and the camera had caught the moment up-close and in excruciating detail.

Shocked, Kurt had numbly cheered along with the rest of the crowd and averted his eyes from the worst of the violence on the screens that surrounded him. He managed to act as though he was enjoying himself like everyone else, but a heaviness weighed dark in his chest.

Since then, he’s found a weird sort of peace with the Games. It’s impossible not to accept them on some level when the entire population of the Capitol puts so much effort into their success. So he parties, he joins conversations about the Games, he has even placed small bets here and there on likely tributes since turning eighteen. But he doesn’t have that all-encompassing manic fire for them that a lot of people seem to have.

"Turn that down, please," Kurt says over his shoulder to Blaine —  _my Avox_ , his head insists. Blaine nods, reaching for the controls—

And he stops.

"Next up is District 8, which, as you all know, is Panem’s primary source of textiles and clothing. And how important those are to us, isn’t that right?"

"That’s for sure. Let’s get a closer look, shall we?"

Kurt’s second, harder request for Blaine to lower the volume dies in his throat as he watches the servant, whose eyes are wide and fixed on the screen.

A man dressed entirely in purple that Kurt recognizes as the district’s escort clears his throat, says, “As they say, ladies first.” He reaches into the glass ball full to bursting with names — District 8 is one of the most populous, after all — and pulls out a single slip. “The female tribute for District 8 is Tilly Ryden. Come on up, sweetheart.”

Some whispers follow the girl, who can’t be more than sixteen years of age, as she makes her way to the stage next to the escort, who gives her a somewhat reassuring smile.

"Now, the boys, right?" The escort clears his throat again and puts on a bright smile as he reaches into the other glass ball and grabs a slip. "The male tribute will be Steven Evans."

A tiny boy with blonde hair — Kurt guesses he’s only twelve years old since he was in the pool of eligible boys, but he looks younger — walks on shaky legs to the stage. However, Kurt’s not focused on him; he’s focused on Blaine, who had let out the smallest of gasps and whose hands have curled into tight fists. He’s staring  _through_  the screen now, his expression more impossible to read than ever.

"Blaine?" Kurt says quietly after a moment, unwilling to acknowledge that this is the first time he’s used Blaine’s name since the night-that-never-happened. "Turn it down."

Slowly, deliberately, Blaine’s fingers loosen and he taps the control panel until the broadcast is completely muted. Kurt lets him despite that he hadn’t told him to turn it down all the way, mostly because he’s too suddenly distracted to worry about something so trivial. Blaine straightens up and returns to his usual spot, but something’s different about the way he holds himself; Kurt can’t quite put his finger on it.

"You’re free to do whatever you like for the rest of the day." The words are out before he can stop them. "As long as you don’t leave, of course."

Blaine blinks at him, gives him a brief moment of eye contact that leaves Kurt breathless and wondering at the new lack of emotion there.

"Go ahead. Um, at ease, or whatever." Nodding, Blaine slips, silent yet somehow present instead of invisible, into the guest room that might as well just be the servant’s quarters for all Kurt’s done to prepare something else. He’ll just have to… not have guests. That’s fine by him.

After the door clicks and Blaine’s gone, Kurt lets himself breathe — why he’d been holding his breath, he has no idea. It was just a Reaping, except it wasn’t. It was something that had a profound effect on Blaine, and the desire to learn more is quickly starting to break through his resolve.

_You can’t just talk to him again_ , he tells himself.  _Especially not sober. Hell, that’s even worse._

Kurt groans, turning back to his sketch. As usual, his design involves wings — bird’s wings. He has a fondness for them, hence the nickname of “songbird” that a few of his mentors employ in everyday conversation. Of course, the other part of that is his love for music — singing, mainly. He hasn’t sung a sober note in years, however.

He picks up a red pencil, examines it, and begins a new sketch on a blank page. As he works, he hums some old tune that his dad tells him comes from centuries ago, before Panem even existed. How a song lasts so long, Kurt has no idea; the words, at least, are lost forever.

Before he knows it, he has a golden-winged, gold-trimmed red uniform on the page that is styled, worryingly enough, a bit like the Avox uniform. He tears the page out and starts to rip it up — this isn’t something he can show anyone, all that time wasted,  _damn it_  — but he pauses, giving the sketch a second glance. Screw it, he likes it. He still can’t show anyone, except…

Kurt bites his lip and turns to look at the door that Blaine had disappeared through. He stands, the paper in hand, and heads towards it, needing to share this with someone — and if he can’t share it with the world, he can at least show the person that inspired it.

What a crazy,  _dangerous_  idea: inspiration from a servant.

He slides the paper through the crack underneath the door, hoping that Blaine will notice, and returns to his desk to make another attempt at finishing his original sketch.

Some time later, Kurt hears the sound of rustling paper and turns again to see something peeking out from underneath Blaine’s door. He hurries to pick it up; it’s a small piece of paper torn from his sketch, a blank piece. Turning it over, Kurt finds two words written in neat, carefully separated letters:

_Thank you._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as usual, all warnings may apply (non-major character death, Hunger Games universe, etc)

Kurt finds himself gradually getting more and more tied up with events as the Games barrel onward to their climax; he comes home late at night and, though he’s managed to stay away from the Capitol’s tempting drinks thus far, the exhaustion he feels in every bone in his body disarms him almost as much as alcohol.

As for Blaine… things are changing, though almost imperceptibly so.

It begins with Kurt allowing Blaine to have the freedom to watch whichever event is being broadcast without worrying about a possible command interrupting him — Blaine uses this mainly to watch the little Steven Evans from District 8, nicknamed Stevie. Kurt uses this mainly to watch Blaine, though he’d never admit it. As time wears on, he begins having rather one-sided conversations with Blaine about ups and downs and everyday thoughts, quietly pleased that Blaine appears to actually listen.

All of a sudden, he’s providing Blaine with paper and pencils, stuttering and clearing his throat as he explains that they’re to be used if Blaine wants to tell Kurt something that can’t be conveyed in expression or posture. Blaine doesn’t use them, appears apprehensive about it, but the fact that he made it a possibility sort of blows Kurt’s confused mind.

Around friends, he refers to Blaine as his Avox when he can’t avoid the topic of being so young and given such a generous gift by such a well-known member of the population. As expected, the conversation never sticks very long to that; Avoxes, after all, are meant to be invisible until called upon, and then they only exist to serve. Still, Kurt finds himself unable to speak properly when someone congratulates him on the “gift,” as though any word he says will betray what he has done so far — and what he, in that space of time between sleeping and waking, dreams of doing.

All too soon, it’s the morning of the start of the Hunger Games — the real Games — and Kurt has chosen to stay home for the first time since he has been allowed to watch them. When asked why he won’t celebrate and revel in the bloodbath that always begins the Games, he can’t come up with any excuse except “I’m not feeling well, I’m sorry.” It’s a lie, of course; he just can’t possibly explain to the people of the Capitol that he wants to be near Blaine. He can’t even explain it himself.

"Make sure all the windows are shut tight," he says as he passes by Blaine, who lifts his head in response. "People will start reveling in the streets soon enough, and I don’t want to hear it."

Blaine’s lips quirk a little, almost to a smile but not quite, as he nods and starts off to attend to the windows. Kurt’s own smile comes easily once Blaine’s back is turned, and he lets himself ponder, briefly, what things would be like had Blaine been another citizen of the Capitol instead of an Avox.

Well, there’s really no doubt; Kurt would be smitten.

He still has no idea if Blaine, in this reality or any other, would be opposed to being with Kurt. In the Capitol, sexuality isn’t something that’s questioned very often — far from it, many treat it as a fad like fashion. While Kurt doesn’t mind others experimenting, whether for the sake of appearing “fashionable” or for the sake of experimenting in itself, he knows he couldn’t sleep with a woman even with all the peer pressure in the world against him. It’s simply not who he is.

But the question is, who is Blaine?

And the other question is, why is he thinking all this about his servant?

Two knocks on the wall; Blaine’s back, and if he has noticed Kurt’s strange, pensive behavior today, he gives no indication of it. If Kurt could see his eyes properly, he’d more than likely find something in them — Blaine’s eyes are expressive, not always easy to read but always showing  _something_. That is, unless he has just finished watching Steven Evans on the screen. Then he’s blank, listless, and Kurt’s dying to know what it is about the little boy that so affects him.

Before Kurt can decide what to say or do next, the screen in the living room springs to life — he sighs and moves to turn it down. The camera is currently panning this year’s arena: a square plot divided into four segments. One appears to be a desert, another a dense wood, the third a jagged rock quarry, and the last a series of small bodies of water surrounded by cattails. Of course, as always, the Cornucopia sits in the center.

"I won’t watch it," Kurt says to himself, forgetting everything in his haste to get to his desk and busy himself with a sketch. This sketch is a promising one, a deceptively simple suit for a client of one of his mentors. The client in question has a deep fascination with bioluminescence, so Kurt figures a plain black suit shot through with intricate patterns that only appear in low-to-no light will appeal to him. There will be more to it, of course — this is the Capitol, after all — but Kurt hasn’t reached that point in his planning yet.

He doesn’t even notice the clock strike ten, nor anything but the sound of his own pencil on the pad in front of him. Out of habit, he reaches up and touches the cuffs, which he affectionately refers to as his “wings,” and grins to himself. He always feels more confident when he’s wearing them, for some reason, and he’d dressed in contrasting purples and whites and blacks, a bold lilac streak in his hair, all in the name of feeling comfortable. No one will see him, but it doesn’t matter.

The Games are nothing to him in this moment. They are distant, the product of fantasy — until Kurt hears, striking over the scratch of his pencil, a loud, distressed sound, unmistakably human yet somehow nowhere near it at the same time.

It’s more than enough to get him to stop and turn, eyes wide, for the source of it. His gaze falls on Blaine, who has his knees drawn up and his head buried in his arms where they rest, crossed, on top of them. He’s shaking, making more incoherent sounds, and it occurs to Kurt that the bloodbath must be over by now. It also occurs to him that, most likely, the little Stevie Evans didn’t make it.

Kurt’s at a loss, watching Blaine, his servant, quietly fall apart. Everything he’s been taught by the world around him tells him to ignore it, or otherwise punish the Avox for shirking his duties and allowing himself to be visible, to show emotion. Curiously enough, when he thinks of his dad (as he tends to when he has a moral dilemma) he can’t imagine Burt Hummel ignoring Blaine. That’s all the reason he needs to take an unused sketch pad from his desk and stand up.

"Blaine," he says quietly, not surprised when there’s no response. Kurt hesitates for a moment, but then he swallows his trepidation and sits next to Blaine on the couch, casting a quick look at the screen. Thankfully, the calm after the storm of the bloodbath is still in place. "Blaine, look at me."

The shuddering eases up and Blaine takes a deep, steadying breath. He lifts his head, his eyes red-rimmed and full to bursting with emotions Kurt can’t even begin to comprehend. Kurt gives him a gentle smile and holds out the sketch pad, along with a pencil.

"Tell me about him?"

Blaine blinks slowly, looking between the paper and Kurt’s face almost skeptically, fearfully. But he takes it, drops his legs so they’re crossed, and begins to write with a shaky hand. He writes the alphabet first — Kurt wonders if, maybe, he needs to do this to get used to the action of writing. Or maybe he’s making sure he still remembers all the letters. Neither possibility makes him feel much better.

In order to give Blaine some privacy to write, Kurt looks back at the screen. The remaining tributes seem to have found places to hide for the time being, though Kurt’s sure the Gamemakers won’t let the reprieve last long. People want action when it comes to the Hunger Games, not tributes holed up in trees and shelters for hours on end. Kurt jumps when Blaine nudges his arm with the sketch pad, having been so drawn into the Games for a moment.

"Sorry," Kurt mumbles, taking the pad and holding it up in front of him.

_I don’t know why you’re letting me do this. You’re a Capitol citizen, you shouldn’t care about me. It’s probably safer for both of us if you don’t. So I’ll just answer your question, and the questions I know you have, but that’s it._

_Stevie ~~is~~  was my best friend’s little brother. I used to take care of him and his sister when Sam worked late, he has a bigger family than I do and he’s the oldest child so he had to work more than I did._

_We’re from District 8, that’s my home. My full name is Blaine Anderson. I had a middle name too, but I don’t remember…_

_I’m here because the sister, Stacey, tried running away. I went after her and got her back inside the fence (there was a hole, they’ve probably fixed it by now) but I was still outside it and got caught by Peacekeepers. I don’t know if you know that’s where we, Avoxes, come from - we’re runaways and traitors, even though I didn’t plan to be. I also don’t know if you know why we don’t/can’t talk… well, we get our tongues cut out._

_Stevie was always fun to watch over, he liked playing games like charades and a few district games you probably don’t know of. He was never meant for_ that  _game, though, he was too sweet, like his whole family. They just watched him get killed back home, but I’m trying not to think about that._

_I don’t know if I can trust you, but I think I might be getting there, and I can’t risk myself like that. And my family, and his, and maybe you and yours too. Sorry - but I won’t write any more._

_Thanks,_   
_Blaine_

Kurt continues to stare at the page long after he has finished reading. He had figured that Blaine knew Stevie somehow, but knowing that it’s because they came from the same place, that they’d been practically family, is jarring. Next to him, Blaine stands.

"No, don’t go anywhere," Kurt says; Blaine freezes and looks at him, pleading. Now that Kurt’s aware of Blaine’s fears — and how well-grounded they are in an increasingly worrisome reality — he knows that Blaine doesn’t want the closeness that Kurt suddenly (desperately) wants. But if he could somehow promise safety, would Blaine trust him then? Could he promise Blaine that the Capitol, which surrounds them and is practically unavoidable, won’t know a thing?

Blaine watches him apprehensively and Kurt — can’t find the words to tell him that he’s starting to understand and that he cares. Kurt’s always kept a certain level of distance from the Capitol aside from his work in fashion, and that’s largely due to his upbringing by Elizabeth and Burt, both strange and… suspicious, Kurt thinks. Perhaps that’s why he can imagine someone like Blaine being captured and rendered mute by such an institution without really doubting it.

It’s still a shock to know it, to have that story presented to him so bluntly; it’s like being doused in freezing water after hours of sitting in a barely lukewarm bath.

"I’m sorry," Kurt says first, because he feels like he needs to. Then, "I understand why you don’t want to trust me, but I hope you can feel safe enough to do so someday."

It’s as much as he can say without potentially and inadvertently lying, at least for now. Blaine appears to accept it, nodding as he slowly returns to his usual spot, his eyes averted from both the screen and Kurt.

The exchange seems to solidify something in Kurt — he cares about Blaine, it’s not wrong to care about Blaine, what’s wrong is why and how he even came to meet Blaine this way in the first place. It all sort of makes him feel dizzy, though, and Kurt’s soon wandering to his bedroom and shutting out all the light he can in order to stare up at the stars from his bed.

Maybe what’s wrong with these stars is that they’re too fake. Bright and pleasant, for sure, but all wrong; real stars are, as Kurt has read, massive balls of hot gas and plasma in space, and dangerously beautiful. Kurt’s stars are pretty enough, but the appeal of real stars is in the simple, unapologetic reality of them.

Taking off the cuffs (they’re painful if slept on, he’s found), Kurt rolls to his side and closes his eyes. A shadowy imprint of the stars remains etched to the inside of his eyelids, however, and sleep is hard to find.

_Damn it_ , he thinks. And he keeps on thinking, about Blaine, stars, and terribly true realities, until night falls and exhaustion wins out — but not before his thoughts bring him ideas.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reference to past character death, the depravity of the Capitol, you know the deal

He begins by leaving notes.

Kurt leaves a note for Blaine each night, doing so by dismissing him as though going to bed himself and then slipping the page underneath Blaine’s door some time later. He slips another page in, as well, that one blank, just in case he gets a response. He doesn’t in those first few days, but he keeps at it anyway.

Four days into the Hunger Games, Kurt opens the door to find a very welcome visitor.

"Dad!" he says excitedly, ushering him in. "How did you know I’d be home?"

Burt gives him one of those  _looks_. “I’ve been hearing that you’re not out celebrating, so where else would you be?”

"I could have been shopping," Kurt says, but he’s smiling. "I’m really glad to see you."

"Yeah, the house isn’t the same without you in it. Nice to meet you, as well," Burt says to Blaine, who tenses in surprise and even looks up. He meets Burt’s gaze and nods, unblinking and impossible to read, at least from Kurt’s vantage point.

"This is Blaine," Kurt says carefully, aware that Blaine might think he’s being reckless. But the silent exchange he’s just witness seems to mean that Blaine will understand that his dad is trustworthy. More so than Kurt himself, really. "Uh— Blaine Anderson."

Burt glances at him, a small smile beginning to form. “I see. Well, Blaine, don’t expect any orders from me. I got a son to do all my work for me right here, and I’m not lettin’ him fall back on you for it either.”

"Love you too, Dad."

"Show me around, why don’t you? Then I could go for something to eat."

"Something healthy, right?" Kurt asks, leading his dad around the house. Blaine stays behind, as expected. Burt scoffs.

"Of course. You’d never let me eat anything that wasn’t, anyway. Even though I know you, Kurt, and you’ll eat anythin’ that tastes good."

"Yes, yes, I’m the biggest hypocrite in the world," Kurt sighs, stepping into his bedroom. It’s not exactly neat, but at least he hasn’t left pages of sketches everywhere.

"Nah, not even close," Burt says, cryptic in that way he is sometimes. Except this time, Kurt thinks he might be catching on. "How’s that star thing you had put in here?"

"I expected more, honestly," Kurt mumbles, staring up at the ceiling. There’s too much light in the room for the stars to be visible, but still. "It’s not real enough."

"Hang on," Burt says when Kurt starts to make for the door. Kurt makes a questioning noise, but his dad leads him to the bed and sits him down. "Tell me about Blaine."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Might as well have a neon sign, bud."

"And it’s not weird? It’s kind of weird. He’s here to  _serve_  me and—” Kurt checks the door, wary of Blaine’s keen hearing as he lowers his voice. “And I can’t stop wanting to know more about him. He told me some things on the first day of the Games, like how he’s from District 8 and had his tongue… um, cut out, but he won’t tell me any more because he thinks it’s not safe.”

"There’s more than that, Kurt, you’re into the guy."

"I care about him. Is that the same thing?"

"Doesn’t have to be, but I think in this situation you two got going on, it is."

Kurt falls back on his bed, hands coming up to cover his face. “Dad, am I being completely ridiculous? It’s not like anything could happen whether I feel that way or not. Blaine’s right, it’s too dangerous.”

Burt sits on the bed next to him with a grunt. “Guess you’re starting to notice what a mess this place really is, huh?”

"Why didn’t you tell me?"

"Yeah, ‘cause that woulda gone great. You grew up here like almost everybody else and it’s hard to admit that there’s something seriously wrong with the system that raised you until you get real proof."

"Is there anything we can do? For the districts or something?" Burt shakes his head.

"Baby steps, kiddo. And until someone gets some spirit into those people out there, nothing’s gonna get fixed for good. Your mom did some good work, though."

"Wait, what?" Kurt sits up again, staring at his dad. "What did Mom do?"

"She went to 13 to do some underground stuff. It still exists, barely, but they’ve got people out there working to help the districts out any way they can. Long-term stuff."

"Whoa, back up. District 13?" Burt nods. "I thought… okay. Well, what happened? Is that why she went away? Is she coming back?"

Kurt furrows his brows as Burt sobers a little, the spark of amusement at Kurt learning about the continuing existence of 13 disappearing. “Last I heard, she went out to one of the districts to get information and never returned to 13. No one knows what happened to her, but most of the people involved are convinced that Peacekeepers…”

"Killed her, right?"

"Now, we don’t know for sure—"

Standing up, Kurt rounds on his dad, suddenly fuming. Because the reason he hasn’t seen his mom since he was eight and probably never will again has everything to do with the Capitol. He’s not sure he’s ever hated something more in his life, knowing this — that his mother left to help people under its control and likely lost her life to it. That Blaine, who was trying to keep his friend’s sister safe, got captured, silenced, and forced into serving spoiled Capitol citizens who’ve never suffered more than mild embarrassment in their lives.

And he’s one of those citizens. He has bought into the glitz and glamour of the Capitol even if he had some reservations. But thank god for those doubts, and thank god for what he’s learning — it’s real. It’s all terrible but he’s finally a part of something real just for knowing. Something that matters.

"I want to do something. You must be a part of it too, whatever it is."

"Kurt, I’m gonna need you to calm down before you draw unwelcome attention. I don’t think we’re being recorded in here, but you can bet there’s stuff all over the streets, and those windows are open."

Kurt doesn’t even try to question the existence of recording devices on the streets; he takes a deep breath and nods. “I still want to do something.”

"What you can do is know the difference between what the system shows you and reality," Burt says, standing and putting a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. "That’s it. We got enough people risking their lives — some of us still gotta be around when it’s time for the real work to get done."

"Do you really expect me to sit around all these people and not explode from how unfair it all is?"

"Yeah, I do. ‘Cause it’s what you gotta do, right?"

"It doesn’t feel like enough."

"It will be. Now, what are you gonna do about Blaine?" A mischievous look comes across Burt’s face and Kurt groans.

"Dad, you can’t seriously think I’d even consider the tiny possibility of… of  _that_ after everything you just told me.”

"I seriously do," Burt says. "You want to know something that’s good about living around here?"

"What?"

"You’re still capable of loving someone. Maybe you can’t help the people that need it, maybe you gotta watch what you say around the people here, but none of that really stops you from finding out it’s like to love, you know?"

"What are you saying?"

"I’m saying to give yourselves a chance, alright? This place is too messed up not to have something good to make every day worth it."

"Was Mom your good thing?" Kurt asks, and Burt smiles.

"Just one of ‘em. There’s you, too." Burt hesitates, then, "I could be willing to add Blaine in there if things work out between the two of you."

"Oh my god, stop."

They return to the living room where Blaine looks up as soon as he hears them, which is strange in itself. And then he actually smiles a little, which is even stranger. Kurt would stare, but he doesn’t, of course. It is nice to see Blaine smiling, though, for whatever reason.

The rest of Burt’s visit passes by in friendly bickering and Blaine attempting to help but being reassured that no one’s ordering him to do anything. Kurt notices, however, that Blaine manages to sneakily do the dishes after he and his dad eat, and he wonders if maybe Blaine doesn’t mind doing things for people — it’s just that being  _forced_  into it is a problem.

After Burt leaves, Kurt sits (or flops, rather) on the couch with an exhausted grunt. It’s been a weird, overwhelming sort of day, and he needs some time to sort everything out in his head. He might have been able to accept his dad’s words as truth, but like Blaine’s story, it’s still a huge shock. And then there’s his mom…

God, he hates anyone that ever had anything to do with her disappearance. First on the list is the Capitol — not the citizens, but the system, the government, the puppeteers. Kurt’s sure that many of the people he knows personally aren’t terrible at heart; after all, he has lived the same life, he knows that no one really knows better. They all have their fantasy, their revelry, but Kurt doesn’t share it any longer. He does have to pretend, though — for how long, he can’t be certain. Maybe for the rest of his life.

Kurt runs a hand through his hair (no colors today) and sighs. Blaine. He should focus on Blaine, the one person he can possibly help in this mess, even if there’s no way to get him home without endangering them both.

First, Blaine needs to trust him. So Kurt, once again, searches out some spare sketch paper and a pencil before returning to the couch and beckoning Blaine to sit next to him, which he does carefully.

 _How are you?_  Kurt scribbles, and he hands the paper over. Blaine glances at him as though he’s about to refuse him a response. But something in his gaze hardens and he puts the tip of the pencil down.

 _I’m as good as I can be_ , he writes.  _Aside from the obvious, this is the best I’ve been in a long time. Why?_

_Just curious. And I’m glad, I don’t want to make this situation worse for you than it already is._

_No, I mean why are we doing this? You know I don’t want to._

Kurt taps the pencil against his thigh as he tries to think of the best way to explain, well, everything. After a while, he decides that the best way to gain Blaine’s trust is to share a piece of himself that Blaine will be able to connect with in some way. 

_My mom (and my dad, I think?) are involved in some underground effort to help the districts. She left when I was eight, and since then she has disappeared, and the general consensus is that she was killed or worse by Peacekeepers._

_Wow, I’m really sorry_ , Blaine writes, and he leaves it there for a few long moments until,  _What does that have to do with you and me, though?_

"It means I’m on your side," Kurt says, letting Blaine keep the paper this time. "I can’t make you trust me or anything, and you’re right to be worried about how unsafe it is to be more than a servant and his master, but I don’t want us to be apathetic when we’ve got the same enemy, you know?"

_I guess so. I can try to get there a little faster, I want to. I’ve experienced more kindness here than I ever could have expected. But… give me time?_

"Of course, as long as you’re not keeping me out. I like having someone to talk to that doesn’t give a damn about the merits of different fabrics."

At that, Blaine chuckles. _I came from the textile mill district, so I could talk about that if you really wanted me to._  Kurt scrunches his nose in distaste.

"We’ll see. For now I’m kind of tired, so I think I’ll turn in early."

_Okay. Goodnight, Kurt._

Kurt bites his lip to keep from smiling too big at the words. “Goodnight, Blaine. Sleep well.”


End file.
